Serenade
by Mithrigil
Summary: Two distractions, two letters, and a proposal. [Ashe, AlCid, Basch, Penelo.]


**Serenade**

_**come please me**_

_Mithrigil Galtirglin_

* * *

**I.**

His first gift to her—other than information and forewarning, of course—is a diversion. It is in celebration of her first full year as Queen but before the actual day—for that would be a time of solemnity. No, he will give her things to laugh privately at during the ceremony, a farce, a mask with a nose just a touch too long, a song too simple to ignore.

A comedy, of course, of mistaken identity, of the vagaries of the night and impossible love, of the bestial natures of men revealed, if docile and jocular in their intensity; of magic. And though he is not the director of these plays, nor the author, those men involved know his heart, and doubtless the subtle stress of a word or the precise color of a mask evokes what he intends—and doubtless, she receives his meaning.

Beside him on the dais, in a chair only slightly higher than his own, she brightens and tenses and leans askance, and feints him with asides, and parries his. And though she is careful with her drink around him, her cheeks tinge pink, and not only at things he says, she says.

**-**

**II.**

She has of course been in correspondence with several suitors, and several who are not suitors but are nonetheless concerned. Al-Cid is just the most…intriguing.

_His father the Emperor is dying, as you doubtless know,_ she writes, and takes her time with it. _Of his brothers who may inherit, he is the most well-liked, by their Council as well as the people. Whatever may have passed between us, I would be glad to see such a man at the fore of his country, and not merely to his brothers' exclusion. In these three years he has been courting me—it does seem strange, to use such a term—I have met the princes, and of all of them I would worry only after the youngest, Al-Nir, harboring any resentment toward either me or Larsa. Al-Daraf is out of the running as far as I am concerned, and Al-Ge probably the better choice of the three. This could of course all be solved by opening the race to the House daughters as well, but I will spare you a lecture of my thoughts on the matter. You know my heart._

Her smile fades a touch as she concludes that phrase, and for a moment sits back, holding the tip of her pen to her lower lip. Her tongue darts out absently—not far away, Penelo giggles.

"What?" Ashe prods, turning to the young dancer, who is perched on the balcony, no longer facing out north and slightly east.

"The look on your face just then," Penelo answers. "What are you writing about?"

"Al-Cid."

Penelo's sun-browned cheeks go a touch redder, and she hangs her head a bit, tossing her pigtails gently. "That's kind of surprising."

"Why?"

The dancer shrugs. The next words of the letter come to Ashe, and she resumes writing.

_Your absence is marked and counsel is desired, on this matter as on all others. I fear in writing my thoughts to you that I overthink them, that they are somehow perverted by this ink. And perhaps I am imposing too much weight on a courtship that will lend itself to nothing but the occasional flirtation once he ascends to his country's throne, for if Al-Cid succeeds the Emperor he will no longer be an appropriate suitor for my hand. Indeed, I almost hope he chooses, so that I may have more time to assert myself, and remain wed to Dalmasca alone. But she is barren, and will not give me heirs._

A swift and sudden breeze rustles her hair and the corners of the paper. She pins it with the pads of her fingers, and a trill of the ink smudges on her latest words, then dries all the quicker.

"You're still blushing," Penelo says.

"I was blushing?"

"What _are_ you writing about?" she almost chirps, and hops down from the balcony rail, coming closer.

Unabashed, Ashe leans aside so Penelo can read over her shoulder.

"Oh," Penelo mutters through a widening smile. "I get it."

_I do not wish to be the reason a potential ally is lost,_ she goes on. _I do not think my power over him—or his desire for me—is so great as to stay him from ascending to the Rozarrian throne—but if it does come down to that, what would you have me do? It would fulfill Larsa's grand dream, all of us whose hearts beat not for war becoming our countries. And that dream has a place in my vision as well, of Dalmasca no longer caught between, of an autonomy buttressed by peace. I fear Al-Cid's culture, and him as an extension of it. But this I will say; I envy his tenacity._

_What say you? Do I overthink? I brood upon, were you here beside me, if these heavy words would at all need be given voice._

_With undying respect, affection, and trust,_

_Ashe_

"Do you ever wonder if Larsa reads these over his shoulder?" she asks as she folds the letter into Penelo's and seals them both, with deep blue wax and—remembering—her fingertips, rather than a signet of state.

Penelo laughs. "Knowing Larsa, he reads them first. And Uncle Basch's shoulders are kind of high."

**-**

**III.**

In Rozarria, she presents herself to the Emperor for the second and final time. He expresses admiration for her strength; she forgives his past aggression. He looks oddly better, with fuller cheeks and glassier eyes than she saw him last. Al-Cid explains that it is the particular strains of medication that the doctors bestow on him, that they give the illusion of youth, to shield the onlooker from the turmoil within him. She agrees with Al-Cid that this is barbaric.

But that is enough of talk on darker matters, he does not say—though his non-sequiturs imply it—and he diverts her to the gardens. This time of day, the sun is insistent through the curling vines and sprawling boughs over their heads, and every other step is between light and shadow. She waits for him to compare her to some flower or other that they pass, and he does not. He has ceased to apologize for his brothers' behavior around her, the courtly leering of Al-Daraf, the unsubtle politicking of Al-Ge, the silent disregard of Al-Nir; they talk instead now of arts both lost and new, architecture and rule and song.

And as soon as their talk turns to song, he summons it; resplendent birds of a like she has never seen, dozens upon dozens, free-wheeling and beckoning to each other, to her. There is no ceiling but the sky, he explains. They alight here of their own accord.

**-**

**IV.**

_My Lady,_

_I hope this letter finds you sound. And I thank you for the concerns you expressed in your own; I am well, as is my liege, as are our endeavors. It grows cold in Archades, and I welcome this—but, though I thought I would never, I miss the bright Dalmascan sun._

_Then, to your direct concern; the matter of his Highness Al-Cid. As ever, I am honored that you hold my opinion in such high esteem. Whatever my feelings about the man, he brooks no disrespect. It is not my place to deride him, and indeed I have no inclination to. He cares greatly for you; this is apparent._

_From a political standpoint, I agree that his choice between the throne and you rests with more than him. He is very much entrenched in the terrestrial; many, but not all, of his concerns are lofty, and those that rest with his pleasure and that of others are not always concerned with posterity. I have known him to be frivolous, as have you, but recall the direst of circumstances under which we first met. He is serious in this, in his wooing of you. And all this, in spite of the wishes of his country._

_I would go so far as to say that he is not undecided on the matter, and is prepared to forego the throne in your favor. He has many secrets, and though I cannot guess at his precise motivation, the throne of Rozarria does not seem to be his desired end, and he makes this plain. I have been present during conversations with the Emperor to this effect. My liege is disappointed. Your assertion that it is part of the Emperor's dream that you three friends "become your countries" is correct. It is likely that his Highness Al-Cid does not wish to be anything but himself._

Ashe's stomach had already been fluttering slightly. At those words, it wrenched.

_If he spurns the throne, it is not for frivolity._

_You are not overthinking this. I doubt he takes your courtship lightly._

(struck through: _-I-f---w-h-a-t---y-o-u---t-r-u-l-y---a-s-k---o-f---m-e---i-s---m-y---o-p-i-n-i-o-n---o-f-)_

_My only counsel is that you do not choose for Dalmasca alone. You are wed already to her, and you would serve her best by serving yourself as well._

In that moment she thinks him a hypocrite.

_Perhaps this is also his Highness Al-Cid's intention. And perhaps this is why he courts you, and not the land._

"…Ashe?"

With a huff on her lips, sudden and sharp, Ashe turns. "Yes?" Her voice is parched.

Penelo's teeth are grit. "You just almost walked into that pillar, that's all."

**-**

**V.**

"They offered me the kingdom anyway," he tells her, urgently. "I sacrifice it on your altar, goddess of free will, and offer myself for whatever ends you would desire me."

She is perplexed at several things at the moment; how he got here, when he came, how he knew precisely which balcony to seek her on and "—what?"

He stills. His voice lowers, and his glasses glint, and he speaks plain: "Bound to you, I am free."

Before she can protest—if she was going to protest, which later she does not think she was—or ask for clarification, he stills his arms and explains. Diplomatic reasons, and rational ones, the lot of them; it will make him a beloved outcast among his house, "a red chocobo, if you will, and I will be quite happy as your consort—though my homeland will demand that it be King-Consort and not Prince-Consort, so that I might go toe-to-toe with my brothers still. And to be sure, I will take no other wives—"

"What?"

He asks, cordially, that she let him up out of the courtyard before he proceeds. Instead, she comes to him. She nearly trips down the stairwell, and remembers she is barefoot.

In the courtyard, he waits, composed, though he worries at the thick black bands of mourning on his upper arm. He abandons the gesture as soon as he sees her, and offers a low bow, as he would for any ruler, and when he straightens he has on his easy smile.

"You honor me," he says, glancing at her feet on the cool grass.

"And you," she admits, and smiles as well. "Do tell me more of this plan of yours, this alliance."

He offers his arm; she does not take it, but walks beside him, and they spiral out from the courtyard to the grounds, likely out the way he entered. It is a fair autumn night, and the city, so near, outshines many a star, but sets the perimeter of the palace glowing grey. "I expect," he begins again, "that you will be pressured into bearing heirs. Indeed, I am certain that you _are._"

"I am," she admits, soft, prodding.

"In you were to align with me, I assure you I will not be the one doing the actual pressuring. In fact, I suspect you will be the more vehement of us on the matter."

And this is more perplexing than his presence. "...Surely you don't mean to say that you'll not want children."

"Oh, I would desire them," he tells her. "From the heart of a father as well as your consort." His smile is quirked tight, hiding almost a leer. "But unless there is some means by which I will be given to share the burden of carrying the child's weight beside that of a crown, all decisions of when would be left to you."

She laughs. "You may be on to something."

"Your rule extends to yourself," he adds with a smirk.

They walk on in silence; she broods, and he can doubtless see it. "...Would it have to be a Rozarrian wedding?" she says, as they turn a corner south. The guards on the walls overhead salute.

"My desert bloom, you may consider me trussed up and veiled for my Dalmascan groom," he says with a sweep of his open palms. "But surely you will at least allow the dancing."

"Surely," she finds herself saying, through the rising corners of her lips.

A moment, and she finds that he is no longer at her side. She turns back, at where he has stopped, with the full view of the moon beside him, Mist-rimmed and close, like she remembers from her Uncle's windows. "My brothers already mock me for my resolve in this," he starts, low and serious, fingers atwitter, "so I do not worry about slighting them. I find favor still with them where it counts, and if you will hold this clandestine, their underestimation of me bolsters my acceptance in other lands, and in the eyes of my people. I yield not only to your many charms, my conqueror; I yield to the allure of the land you cultivate, to her people and her ways."

"Your tongue is of silk," she tells him truly, "and a fine endowment at that. You have given this much thought."

"Five years have passed since first I beheld you from this angle," he says as he kneels and takes her hand. She can see behind his dark glasses, and they have never been the true armor over his eyes, but even that is gone. "Let it not be the last, and let the trend of better circumstance continue."

Her cheeks grow hot, and she reigns in her blood, eyes shivering closed at his warm, pleasant touch. She whispers, "Alas, allow me time to consider."

"You are magnanimous." He runs his fingers up the underside of her arm as he rises, smirking, and her hairs prickle in the wake of his hand, anticipating. "Allow me time to aid in your consideration?"

She hopes the blush does not show. Perhaps it is dark enough. "And should I say no?"

He removes the glasses, and hooks them into the crook of his shirt. "Then give me leave at least to praise the other, be he flesh or fancy, Hume or hero, and remain welcome in your sands and your streets."

"Time to consider," she bids, and her smile is true. "The streets and sands are yours to peruse."

He nods. When his face rises from the shadows of the moon, there is that lascivious leer, but it is soft and humbler, somehow. "The first order, it seems, is to learn the ones that lead you to your chambers, unless you would brook no escort."

She cannot help but smirk at that. "Your curiosity knows no bounds."

"Save yours," he yields.

"Wise," she chides, but her fingers are leading toward his hand.

A faint wind rustles, and he comes nearer to her, his dark hair batted with the blades of dry grass underfoot. "You choose as a woman alone, and as a Queen solitary on her dais. I do not question it." He is about an inch past propriety, but she does not stop him, holding her hand in one of his (so warm, she thinks, and smooth, this pacifist) and her bare upper arm in the other. His grip pulses once, and his mouth is close—"My leave, I take," he says, and loosens.

She had been holding her breath. She prays it did not show. "Do not stray far if I have need to summon you."

Nodding slow, he lets slide his hands and backs away, almost reluctantly putting the glasses back on. "I await," he assures her.

* * *


End file.
